Ghost

When I wake
from the gleam of your shine,
you sit at the end
of my bed and pull
the covers off my torso
so my skin
raises goose flesh
and you laugh.

Somehow the dog
does not wake through this exchange
and makes small woofs
through a dream.

I see you
look as if you are ten years old
when you did not reach
that age alive.

You see me
pull my body up
into a sitting position
to view you eye to eye.

I pull a pillow over
to cover exposed skin
and watch you rise crosslegged
in some levitation trick
so your eyes
are above mine,
though I question
if it is in judgement.

It is now thirty years gone
and I have done all the atonement
I could think of for being a parent living
when you are not.

You extend you legs to touch the bed
and walk forward to where I sit,
lean and kiss me on the cheek
knowing that will untie
the last tether I use to hold on to you.

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copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney